Kick to the Head
by OpheliacAngel
Summary: 'It's over for you. That's what they told you: it's over. But you know for a damn fact that it's not over till you give the punchline.' Quarles reflects on the day's events and his current situation. Set during the last scene of 'Watching the Detectives.'


**Title: **Kick to the Head

**Author: **OpheliacAngel

**Character: **Quarles

**Genre: **Drama/Angst

**Rating: **Mature, only for language

**Summary: **'It's over for you. That's what they told you: it's over. But you know for a damn fact that it's not over till you give the punchline.' Quarles reflects on the day's events and his current situation. Set during the last scene of 'Watching the Detectives.'

**A/N: **I'm really praising Neal McDonough's performance in the role of Quarles; figured I should write something for that amazing character. Take note that I have written this before I watched any succeeding episodes, so if something doesn't line up as it should, that's why. Enjoy.

* * *

It's over.

It's over for you.

That's what they told you, after all your hard work and all the shit you had to set up to get Sammy over to your side again, that sneaky fucker. You'd thought you wouldn't get kicked in the head, thought you wouldn't fuck up again and somehow manage this time to secure yourself more goddamn efficiently.

But no. You're smarter and more fucking determined than all of them and they just don't understand, don't understand what happens when you cross Robert Quarles. They don't get that when they say it's over for you, it's over for them.

You feel like they've kicked you right in the head with a steel toed boot, and you can't break away from that feeling, that pain. The sensation of the metal slamming against your skin and lighting you up in fucking fiery rage.

Until you crashed... or came as close to it as you were ever gonna let yourself get.

Your hands clench the steering wheel in the darkness, hardly focusing on the road at all but berating yourself for your idiocy. You backtrack, thinking of where you went wrong, what could have been different. You. You could have been different. Because if it's anyone's fault, it's yours. You have no one to blame but yourself.

And yes, you could have taken the shot, could have shown that piece of shit his last image: you smiling down at him, reminding him that you were the last person he ever should have fucked with.

Quarles.

Robert Quarles.

That's who you are, right? Or that's who you say you are, think you are, but you're hardly that man anymore, before this job you weren't either.

So who are you exactly?

You're still angry but it's not that uncontrollable rage anymore; you've calmed down, you've had to. Had to pull yourself together and push yourself forward, even if you still don't know where forward really is, even if that was your last chance and you knew it, you'd known it all along. Why not go backward? Why not go back to the beginning, break out of your fucking prison, the one you've been creating unconsciously, and think of another grand plan? What's so hard about that? Quarles. Robert Quarles. You're not him, you're only kidding yourself.

Numb.

You want to be more numb than this but you can't afford it, and that little voice inside your head telling you how much of an idiot you are won't allow it either.

Because it's time for action, no more bullshit you can't control. Quarles can't rest, Quarles can't stop, Quarles can never keep a fucking grip!

And your cell rings. Shit. And you pick it up but can't answer, no matter how fucking bad you want to answer, need to hear their voices because what the fuck will you say? That everything went as planned, that you're always going to keep them secure in their lifestyle and alive? That you're gonna come home the same man, watch your son play, praise him, cheer him on, kiss your wife again knowing that this was your second chance? Cause this was, your second chance, your last chance. You should've known better after last time, should've...

You clench your cell tightly and realize you can't do it, can't answer, so you slam it down and you pull yourself back together one string at a time, stitching yourself back up.

Failure.

Forever failure.

How the hell are you gonna pull yourself back from this one? They've backed you into a corner, like a wounded goddamn animal.

The radio's on but you can't hear it, you're still struggling not to lose it and you see it: the bottle of pills in the bag...

You pop one of those damn things to try to take the edge off: oxy, and you crunch it because you want to get the full taste of it in your mouth, want to focus on that and not on the events of today. You should have thought it out more, should've written down every possible fuck up and solution just like a goddamn novelist would, should've gone over the details but no... always so sure of yourself. Robert Quarles always so goddamn sure of himself.

Banging your head against the steering wheel isn't a solution, you can't take your frustration out on anything yet, even though you're alone, because that would be accepting defeat to yourself and you are _not_ ready to do that.

You'll never be ready.

You'll bounce back, you tell yourself. Cause that's what you always do; even if the last time was a fucking disaster and you thought you'd never recover. And you'll show them, you'll show all of them that it's not over until you say it's over, until you deliver your own fucking punchline. Because it's not about the cash anymore, it's about integrity and proving to yourself that you can stop your too familiar descent into self-destruction. It's time for them to see that making a fucking promise to Robert Quarles means nothing less than keeping it, no matter if you're got a U.S. Marshal sniffing you down.

You look up into the rear view mirror and you clear your head.

Quarles.

Know the name, remember the name. Earn the name again. Give yourself another chance, another chance to get it right.

The oxy's helping, only a little but it's enough to clear your head; not that it matters much, the nerve-wracking anxiety has finally decided to leave you alone for the night. And as soon as you park the car and get out, as soon as you put that smile upon your face for a split second and then start walking, you know you're back.

Back for business.

Back to kick ass; after all, that pistol's still jammed up the inside of your sleeve, waiting for you, counting on you. But, they'll be plenty of time for that later.

"You said you liked to back the winning side."

_Last resort._

**FIN**


End file.
